But all I got for an answer was silence. A deep, defeated silence. The kind of silence that comes from someone who has no excuses for their actions, no justifications that could possibly make things right, no words that could undo what has been done. It was a silence heavy with the weight of centuries, with regret so profound it had no voice. Maybe she wasn't ready to talk about this after all, I realized. Maybe she needed more time to find the words, to work up the courage to confront the truth of what had happened here a thousand years ago. I let out a long, weary sigh. Pursuing this matter any longer didn't serve any purpose if she wasn't willing or able to talk about it. Forcing the issue would only cause more pain, and there had been enough pain in this place already.
"There's a mural on that side of the wall," Arvid's voice suddenly cut through my troubled thoughts, bringing me back from my intense inner world conversations with Aiona. He had left me standing before the statue almost immediately after we had entered the temple, wandering off to explore the rest of the ancient structure while I had been lost in contemplation. And it seemed he had found something interesting, something worth interrupting my brooding for.
His voice had come from the right side of the chamber, echoing slightly in the cavernous space. I turned and walked in that direction, my footsteps making soft sounds against the ancient stone floor. As I approached, I could see what he meant. There were quite a lot of spider webs covering this section of the walls, thick silvery strands woven intricately between the pillars and across the stone surfaces. The spiders had been busy here over the centuries, creating layer upon layer of delicate architecture that obscured whatever lay beneath. Arvid had already cleared a rough path through the worst of the webs, brushing them aside with his hands, but the light inside the temple was far too dim to see the mural on the wall clearly. The few rays of sunlight that managed to penetrate through cracks in the damaged roof weren't nearly enough.
I concentrated briefly and summoned a ball of fire, carefully controlling its intensity so it would provide light without generating too much heat that might damage the ancient artwork. The fireball slowly floated through the air at my mental command, drifting toward the wall like a small, obedient sun. Its warm orange glow began to illuminate the previously shadowed surface, revealing details that had been hidden in darkness for who knows how long.
"That's handy," Arvid commented, watching the floating light with obvious fascination. His eyes widened with genuine amazement at the casual display of magic. Despite everything he had seen me do, he still found wonder in the smaller, more mundane applications of my abilities.
I nodded in agreement, pleased that I could be useful in such a simple way. "It comes in handy for exploring ancient ruins," I said with a slight smile.
As the area of the wall where the mural was painted became fully illuminated by my magical light, the picture that the long-dead artist had depicted became startlingly clear. I found myself immediately fascinated by the style. It was an odd artistic approach, neither hyperrealistic like the carefully rendered northern pieces I had grown up with, nor done in the abstract, somewhat exaggerated style commonly used in southern regions that I had become familiar with during my time in Selon. This was something distinctly in between, a unique aesthetic that must have been characteristic of the lost kingdom of Heinnas. But despite its unfamiliarity, it was immediately clear that the artist had wanted everyone who looked upon their work to understand the message they were trying to convey. There was an intentional clarity to the storytelling, a universality that transcended stylistic choices.
The first picture in the sequence depicted a dragon, but this dragon was noticeably without any horns. It looked vastly different from Aiona's form as I knew it—different in ways that went beyond just the missing horns. This dragon appeared softer somehow, gentler, more approachable. The curves of its body suggested kindness rather than power, though there was clearly strength there too. Standing in front of that dragon was a man, rendered with careful attention to detail. He held a book in one hand—a large, important-looking tome—and his other hand was planted affectionately on the nose of the creature, as if caressing it with deep fondness. The posture suggested intimacy, trust, and a bond that went beyond words.
Then my eyes moved to the next mural in the sequence. This one showed an egg that seemed to glow with an inner light, the artist having used some technique to make it appear luminous even in painted form. Both the dragon and the man from the previous picture were positioned on either side of it, gazing down at the egg with expressions that could only be described as full of love and wonder. There was something profoundly tender about this image, something that spoke to hope and new beginnings.
The third picture was notably darker in tone. It depicted a grave—a single burial mound marked with what appeared to be a carved stone. The man from the earlier pictures stood before it, but he was no longer alone. He held the hand of a little girl, who appeared to be merely ten or twelve years old based on her size relative to him. Both figures seemed to be in mourning, their heads bowed in sorrow.
Then we moved to examine the next section of the mural, and the story continued to unfold. The girl with the curved horns—clearly the same child from the previous image, now revealed to be something more than human—was depicted running joyfully through vast fields of rice paddies. The artist had captured a sense of movement and freedom in her posture, her small form dashing between the green stalks with childish abandon. In the following picture, she had transformed into her dragon form for the first time, or at least the first time the artist chose to show. She possessed curved horns that spiraled elegantly from her head, piercing silver eyes that seemed to glow even in the static painting, and magnificent black scales that bore a distinctive silver sheen, catching and reflecting light in a way that must have been breathtaking to behold in person.
The next image was more somber. It showed her standing in front of two graves positioned close to each other, suggesting the occupants had been beloved to each other in life and were not to be separated even in death. In her hands—now depicted in human form again—she held a book. I looked more carefully and realized it was the same book that the man in the first picture had been holding. She appeared to be crying, tears streaming down her face as she clutched this precious inheritance to her chest.
Then, positioned centrally in the temple's layout, was the magnificent statue we had first encountered. The placement was clearly intentional, making the statue itself part of the narrative flow of the murals. So we walked around to the other side of the chamber to see the continuation of the story, to find out what had happened next in this ancient tale.
The next picture we encountered showed the dragon being worshiped by a king who knelt reverently before her. The king wore elaborate robes and a crown that marked his status, and behind him stood his people—hundreds of them suggested by the artist's clever use of overlapping figures that implied a vast crowd. Their postures all suggested devotion, awe, and grateful respect.
The following mural depicted golden rice fields stretching to the horizon, abundant and healthy, and the dragon sleeping peacefully in the middle of them. It was an image of prosperity and protection, suggesting that the dragon's presence brought blessing to the land itself.
The next picture showed the fruits of that prosperity more directly—literal fruits and harvest goods piled high in the foreground. Behind these offerings stood people with broad smiles on their faces, their happiness practically radiating from the painted wall. Above them all, the dragon soared through the sky, her wings spread wide in a protective arc over the kingdom she had chosen to watch over.
Then we moved to examine the next image in the sequence, and here the tone shifted again. There was a young child cradled protectively in a queen's arms—presumably the first king's kin, the next heir to the throne. Standing before them, depicted in human form rather than her draconic shape, was the dragon. The interaction suggested a blessing being given, perhaps a important ceremony.
The penultimate mural showed a young king, aged to maturity—kneeling before the dragon in her human form. He was kissing her hand in a gesture that seemed to transcend mere political or religious devotion. His eyes, rendered with particular care by the artist, were absolutely screaming with yearning, with a desire that was clearly romantic rather than merely reverential. This was not how one looked at a deity. This was how one looked at a beloved.
That was the end of the completed murals. But I noticed immediately that there was significant space remaining on the walls—enough room to fill at least two more large panels, perhaps even three if they were willing to make them slightly smaller. The blank stone practically called out to be filled, to have the story completed.
Maybe the king who had commissioned these murals had intended to fill them after whatever outcome he had been hoping for came to pass. Perhaps he had wanted to paint his union with the dragon, their happiness together, the continuation of his dynasty with her by his side. But those panels had remained forever empty, the story unfinished, the hoped-for ending never realized.
Now, if I had the liberty to fill in those gaps based on what I knew, I would paint the final picture with brutal honesty—the dragon descending in terrible fury, burning down the entire kingdom in an inferno of divine wrath. Flames consuming the rice paddies, the temples, the palace, the people. Everything reduced to ash and ruin. But that would be the ending, the terrible conclusion to this tragic tale.
The question that haunted me was what should fill the space between that loving, yearning look from the young king and the apocalyptic destruction that must have followed. There was a gap in the narrative, a missing piece that I couldn't fill without knowing the whole story. What had happened to transform worship into betrayal, love into rage, blessing into curse? What event or series of events could have driven Aiona to destroy everything she had once protected, everyone who had once loved her?
Without learning the complete truth, without hearing her side of what had transpired, I couldn't judge her fairly. I couldn't condemn or forgive without understanding.
So I made a decision. I would wait. I would wait for Aiona to be ready to fill those narrative gaps for me herself, to tell me in her own words and her own time what had happened in this place a thousand years ago. Until then, I would reserve my judgment and simply try to understand the depth of pain that must have been involved for both the dragon and the people she had once called her own.
I reached out and gently touched the blank space on the wall, my fingers tracing the empty stone where the missing murals should have been. "When you're ready," I whispered, speaking to Aiona though I kept my voice too quiet for Arvid to hear, "I'm here to listen. No judgment. Just... help me understand."
The silence that followed wasn't quite as heavy as before. Perhaps it carried the faintest hint of gratitude.